


This Whole Damn World Can Fall Apart

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Series: Music & Lyrics [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Music Creation, Rock Stars, Warning: Kris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yifan and Yixing are an unstoppable songwriting duo for the pop singer Lu Han. Well. Almost unstoppable. Influenza's definitely going to give it a shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Whole Damn World Can Fall Apart

As usual, they've left it until the last minute. It's worked for them in the past, though— Lu Han's last single, _Silent Hearts_ , charted for weeks after its release, immediate all-kill, dominated the music shows for weeks. But the song's due on Friday and they've got nothing. Yixing's gone through half a dozen chord progressions on the piano and hates every single one of them, and Yifan's writer's block is back with a vengeance at the most inopportune of times.

So, they've got less than nothing.

Well, Lu Han's got something: a nasty cold. He slinks into the studio an hour late with tissues peeking from up his sleeves, a scarf wound around his neck six or seven times. Yixing gets the brief urge to pull it tight and strangle him for not calling sooner, but it's gone as quickly as it comes.

"Well. Fuck," Yifan says when he sees the red nose, the watery eyes. "This isn't going to work."

Lu Han looks at them forlornly, mid-chug. The bottle breaks from his lip's seal with a quiet _pop_ , mouth glazed pink from the cough syrup.

"You look terrible," says Yixing.

"Shut up. You look worse every day of the week." Lu Han punctuates this with a soft cough. It smells like synthetic cherry and chamomile tea. "Really. I'm okay," he says, although he's clearly not okay. There's a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his flushed cheeks. Yifan pushes a box of tissues against his chest.

"Damn it, Lu Han. You're going to get us all sick."

Lu Han pouts. "I'm sorry. You said we were on a deadline."

"Yeah, well." Yifan sighs. "We're going to have to get an extension, aren't we? There's no way."

"Let me try," Lu Han insists. "I've been drinking tea all day, I feel a little better than I did this morning."

Lu Han tries to sing but his voice falters and disappears in the higher register. He's got maybe half an octave more in his lower register but that's not going to do them any good. He's not normally a baritone. There's no way he'll be able to sustain the range when he's healthy again.

So that's it. He's out of commission.

Yixing sends him home with strict orders to rest. "Soup," he says. "No talking."

Lu Han types something up on his phone and holds the screen up. "What about texting?" it says.

Yifan pushes the phone into Lu Han's chest and rolls his eyes. "No texting, either. Get out of here. I'm calling Minseok to come stay with you."

Lu Han's eyes widen. "But—"

"Go."

Secretly though, Yifan's relieved. Lu Han's illness is a plausible excuse. They may not even have to push back the release date. Mastering the track shouldn't take _that_ much time, as long as they deliver something really solid. If Lu Han's back on his feet in a few days and they can record a few takes, it'll all work out.

If they can come up with a song, of course.

If, if, if.

Yifan runs his hands through his hair and pulls at the roots in frustration. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck, fuck. Fuck."

"We can always go pull one of the old ones," Yixing suggests when Lu Han's finally gone. "One of the songs we wrote for his last album that didn't make it."

Yifan wrinkles his nose. The old ones hadn't been used for a reason—too sentimental, not in Lu Han's range, embarrassingly dated lyrics. An experimental dubstep track Yixing had produced during the dance music boom of 2013.

"No," he says finally, heaving a huge sigh. "We've got to come up with something new."

 

Usually, Yifan sleeps on it. He's gotten his best ideas in that hazy purgatory between sleep and waking, when everything feels like floating.

He's trying it now, letting his thoughts wander and piece together phrases but it's all coming out flat or overly sentimental.

"Hey."

Yifan feels the bed dip, hears the whirring coil of fingertips along guitar strings as Yixing adjusts the instrument in his lap.

"Yifan. Are you awake?"

Yifan nods into the sheets, eyelids still closed. "Sort of," he mumbles. "You're up early."

"I've got something, I think."

Yifan nods again and rolls onto his stomach. "Play it for me."

Yixing hums cheerfully. "And you'll write something brilliant," he sings in place of the real lyrics. "And we'll be able to pay the bills for a little while longer."

It's slower than they'd been discussing, but it's nice all the same. Catchy. A little percussion, maybe some strings. Backing vocals. Lu Han can make it work—Lu Han can make anything work, really, but this'll show a _softer, more sensitive side_ and his legion of female fans will love it.

"You've got a lot of faith in something that remains to be seen," Yifan says, dragging Yixing down on the bed with him. The guitar clunks quietly against the edge of the bed.

"Hey—let me—put this down first, come on," Yixing protests, chuckling. "You big sloth."

Yifan pulls Yixing in by the hips, drapes a protective leg over Yixing's thigh and exhales slowly. "Help me," he murmurs drowsily.

Yixing kisses the corner of his mouth. His lips linger, warm, on the skin of Yifan's cheek. "How can I help?" he asks, voice more breath than tone. "I did my job."

"What were you thinking when you wrote it?" he asks. He feels Yixing smile against his throat but he doesn't answer.

Doesn't really have to—his answer's always the same every time: _You, idiot._

 

Yifan goes to the studio early the next morning to get some peace and quiet and finish up the lyrics he'd come up with sleeping with Yixing the day before. _Before you, my heart was vacant: now, it overflows—_ He hopes Lu Han doesn't look too closely, or figure out that everything Yifan writes is always about Yixing.

"Hey." Yixing's voice comes from the open door and Yifan stiffens at the sound, startled. "I think Lu Han was contagious." He's congested and there's a bright purple leopard print mask across his face. His voice sounds like he's talking through a swarm of bees, muffled and buzzy.

"You think?" Yifan asks. "Listen to you. Go home and get some sleep."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Your work is done," Yifan says, swiveling in his chair. "Mine isn't."

Yixing rolls his eyes and sniffles. "How does it sound?" he asks. "You're all finished now?"

"I just recorded the guide track," Yifan says, cringing a little. His voice really isn't the best—nothing like Lu Han's. There's a reason Lu Han's the pop star and Yifan's just the lyricist, but. It's good enough for Lu Han to practice with until the recording session. "The lyrics in the second verse are a little shaky, but we can always change those. I think it'll be okay."

Yixing plops down right on the floor without hesitation, pillowing his face on Yifan's thigh. "Play it for me," he whines, sounding much younger than his twenty-six years. His hands splay across Yifan's calf, pulling it closer to lean against. "At least Lu Han's getting better."

"Oh?" Yifan asks, slowly raking his fingertips through Yixing's short brown hair. His voice softens. "How do you know?"

"Texted me this morning. Said his voice is mostly back. Should be able to record tomorrow." Yixing nuzzles his face into the soft denim of Yifan's jeans. "Oh, and call your mother back," he says. "She misses you."

Yifan looks down at Yixing sprawled out on the carpet, eyelids already heavy with a sick sort of sleepiness. "You don't get paid extra for answering my calls," he says finally. "But thank you."

"Play it for me," Yixing insists again.

Yifan doubles over, kisses the crown of his head. He's fucked—whatever Yixing's got is going to get him, too, so there's no point in withholding affection for the sake of _staying healthy_. They share everything: of course they're going to share the flu, too. "You promise to go home and get some rest if I do?" he asks.

"There's a couch in the other room," Yixing mumbles, mostly into Yifan's kneecap.

"That wasn't what I asked." Yifan can't even see Yixing's mouth underneath the mask but he knows he's sticking out his lower lip. His skin is flushed and warm. Yifan can feel it, even through his pants. Yixing always tries to downplay this stuff, though. He doesn't like it when Yifan worries.

"I'll sleep after Friday," Yixing insists. "After the song's done. It's just a cold. This is more important right now. Just play it."

"Yeah, yeah. Fine," Yifan says, laughing. "You're a lot like Lu Han sometimes, you know that?"

Yixing scowls, withdraws his face just far enough to look up into Yifan's eyes. "You take that back right now."

"I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing," Yifan says, thumb tracing the arch of Yixing's furrowed eyebrows. "Just very dedicated to what you do." He paused. "And you're both walking plagues right now, so. There's that, too."

Yixing punches Yifan in the thigh.

Yifan laughs and presses play.


End file.
